"Why do they wake us up so early with their bell-ringing, their crackers, and guns?" said Let. "I hate the Fourth of July!" "She talks like a rebel," said Win. "She must be put in prison." "That is not a bad idea, Win," said Mat. "She hates the Fourth of July, does she?--the birthday of the great republic! She hates it!--the day that made us a nation." "Yes; and I hate the stars and stripes, and all this fuss and noise, this smell of smoke, and firing of crackers," said Let, showing a fist. "Jump up, Win, and help me arrest this rebel," said Mat. "The country is lost if we allow such talk." The next minute, the three sisters were running about the room,--Mat and Win trying to catch poor Let, and thrust her into the closet, which was to be her prison. Such a stamping, such an outcry, as there was! "What's all that racket there?" cried papa, at last, from the foot of the stairs that led into his room underneath. "Isn't there noise enough out of doors, without your shaking the house over our heads?" "Let says she hates the Fourth of July, and the old flag," cried Mat; "and we think she ought to be put in prison as a rebel. We are trying to arrest her." "Go to bed, every one of you, you rogues!" said papa, "or I will put you all in prison for breaking the peace,--Where's my big whip, mother?" "I'll tell you where it is, papa," cried little Win. "Where, then, is it, you little darl--I mean you little rogue?" said papa. "It is where Cinderella's glass slippers are," screamed Win. "Ask the fairies where that is." What a scampering and laughing there was then! Papa made a pounding with his feet on the stairs, as if he were coming up in a great rage; but he and mamma were laughing all the time, and so were Mat and Let,--all but Win, and she kept a grave face. It was now almost five o'clock, and the three sisters made up their minds that they would dress themselves, and go out on the green to see the fun. EMILY CARTER. [Illustration] THE LITTLE DESERTER. FREDERICK. SEE him on the apple-tree, Looking down so bold and free! Now that he his wings can show us, He pretends he does not know us. Ah, you rogue! are you aware How deserters often fare? Come, be good, and I'll not chide: See, the door is open wide. BIRDIE. Peep, peep, peep! CLARA. Were you not well treated by us? Why, then, do you thus defy us? Salad every morning early, Crumbs of bread, and grains of barley, Sugar, now and then a berry, And in June a nice ripe cherry,-- These were yours; don't be ungrateful; To desert us is too hateful. BIRDIE. Peep, peep, peep! FREDERICK.